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The approach into Billings, Montana from The Rimrocks was a steep descent into my sister’s neighborhood.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
“Almost, let me grab my purse.” Linda crammed daily survival items into her oversized bag, Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, Winston cigarettes, a lighter, Chap Stick, and a hairdresser's rattail comb.
In the fall of 1976, she agreed to accompany me on my move to Phoenix, Arizona, if we spent a night in Vegas. She wanted to use her summer tips from hairdressing on the gambling tables.
“We’ll be in Vegas by tomorrow, if we get moving." I stared at my Timex watch, believing it held the answer to my future.
Though Linda and I had gone on several roadtrips together, this journey was the first where I owned the vehicle and was the driver. I had inherited our mother's Toyota pickup, nicknamed Froggy Doo, when I was fifteen. Froggy Doo's bed was loaded with all my belongings covered by a blue tarp, a technique I learned from watching The Beverly Hillbillies.
My mother often tasked Linda with looking after me in her absence. When Linda went on a trip to the State Fair, Mom reminded her to “bring back something for Cynthie.” It was a natural plan for Linda to accompany me on my out-of-state move.
She was also a good travel companion.
Using her gift for conversation, Linda won Wheatland County's Miss Centennial pageant in 1964. Dad said Linda could charm anyone.
We arrived in Vegas before nightfall. After registering for our room at Circus, Circus, I visited my first casino.
Bing, Bing, Bing.
Some lucky winner scraped her coins from the tray of a slot machine, displaying a row of cherries.
Linda settled in at a one-armed bandit located near the flashing light, lit a cigarette, and blew a puff of smoke at the machine. A scantily clad waitress asked what we wanted to drink.
“I’ll take a Screwdriver.” Linda's favorite drink was vodka and orange juice. She was thirty-years-old. I wasn't yet drinking age.
“Nothing for me, thanks.” I gazed at the aisle of beached players, pulling levers, sighing, and dropping coins into the slots.
“Let’s try Blackjack,” she said after applying a layer of Chap Stick to her parched lips.
I followed her like a puppy fearful of separation. The casino had the lights and sounds of the State Fair, but the air was stale, and the faces reflected disappointment not delight.
We stopped at the craps table. One minute later, Linda lost twenty dollars, betting on the wrong number or maybe it was the wrong color. She was confident she’d win it back.
We went back to our room and discussed which all-you-can-eat buffet we’d select for dinner. I secretly hoped she was finished gambling for the night. After dinner, she announced she was returning to the casino floor. My gut somersaulted. This time I stayed in the room and worried.
Where would I live?
How could I afford living expenses?
Why was I leaving Montana?
The next day we drove further south, further from the place I had called home for my first seventeen years of life. She gave me a stick of her Wrigley’s gum. I preferred Juicy Fruit but was happy to have the flavor burst that reminded me of our times together. Nostalgia had set in, even before we parted.
Soon we reached a vista point.
“Hey, let’s take a picture there." Linda pointed to an overlook of Hoover Dam. She wore her plaid shorts and coordinated top. She made the outfit, matching the plaid perfectly at every seam, which was another reason she won Centennial Queen.
Linda raised herself to the top of the flat ledge, crossed her legs, and rested her arm on the support post.
A black bug with a large, segmented body, and long hairy legs, made its way along the ledge.
“What’s that thing?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I didn’t say what I was thinking, tarantula.
I took a quick picture, then turned to run towards the pickup.
“Every man for himself," I yelled. I'd learned this saying from Linda. She usually meant I was on my own for dishing up our favorite food at dinner, not escaping a deadly arthropod.
After similar encounters with creepy crawlies and flying insects, we finally reached the outskirts of Phoenix.
If you pay attention to their signage, strip malls tell the story of a place.
Small shopping areas along both sides of the avenue advertised fast and effective Pest Extermination. I was relieved to know that bug killing was available on almost every block in Phoenix.
Days later, Linda boarded her flight for Billings, Montana. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched her plane take off. We always sobbed when we left each other but, this time, I also cried because I had to stay.
Memories of her many previous departures, when she left for work, or to have fun, or when she married, came rushing back. I hated being left behind. Even now, when I was the sibling starting the adventure, I stayed. Self-pity crept in on the threshold of trading places. Previous ways of thinking clung to me like cob webs. It was familiar to lament my position in life. But my position had changed.
It was time to embrace all my new life offered, including the bugs.
I dried my eyes with the back of my hand, climbed into Froggy Doo, and reluctantly drove home to my new roommate and apartment.
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TRADING PLACES isn't in the final version of BOOTSTRAP. Should it be? Only people who read my newsletter will know how my sister helped me and Froggy Doo move to Arizona via Vegas.
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